A part of me will always mourn the life I could have were I not forced into hiding. I will always love my culture, and I will always hold this grudge against it. Why must love bring me shame? Why must my identity bring me scorn? I write this knowing change is unlikely. Knowing I'm much too cowardly to be a part of it. I'm brave enough to stand for so much, and yet never this. My throat is raw. I have to go to school soon. I hope I don't live this miserable all my life. If I marry—which is probable, and I would like to—I hope my future husband understands (and I assume gender, because I cannot acceptably take a wife). I pray I can trust him and tell him and he will understand. I can't wait to move out, even if I live alone. At least then, I won't have to be so discreet. Maybe I'll move westward, where I'm not as disgusting. All I know is I cannot stay in my motherland. I remember one time, when I was a child, my uncle spoke of two of his colleagues who'd come out and gotten together. The company celebrated them. My family evidently found it gross and backwards. They were two women, if I recall. Every time I hope for change, that memory shuts it down. But still, I envy them. They felt safe enough, or at least bold enough, not to hide. They found acceptance, and love, and didn't hide it. I'm such a fucking coward. June will always render me mad with envy.
